


I See a Man

by Dryad



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Other, R, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bits of the past float to the surface of the deep, still pond that is James Hathaway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Veni

**Author's Note:**

> [Mistress Kat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/762401) made me gorgeous artwork!! 
> 
> PLAYLIST: Songs for this piece are also listed in order of play in the end notes (if you don't want to read any possible spoilers, you can also see or listen to the playlist with appropriate chapters on my lj, [here](http://xfdryad.livejournal.com/20215.html) ) or, you can listen on [youtube](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLCKcnrBehc_xD7hLMPp73t9X9Sl6vRDUs)
> 
> The brief works ['Boys Like Me'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/532664) and ['Rosabel, Believe!'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/631854) are a related prequel and ficlet, but do not have to be read to understand this piece.

~*~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
I could not believe my own truth.  
~ Helena Beat by Foster the People  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~*~

 

Hathaway stared at the search results with annoyance. Why was it that no matter how he phrased his question, the results were always the same, or worse, amalgamations of the same information on different sites? His huff of frustration did not go unnoticed by Lewis, but Lewis left him alone. "I'm going out for a walk," he announced. 

"Anything I can help with?" asked Lewis, staring up at him with guileless eyes. Hathaway wasn't fooled, his Governor might appear harmless, yet his perception was beyond compare, sometimes even better than Hathaway's own.

Hathaway stood. "No, just need to clear my head."

"Mm."

An hour of apparently non-aimless wandering brought him to Christ Church Cathedral. Hands in his pockets, he strolled in, noted with fondness its patterned floor, made warm with colored tile despite the winter light coming through the clerestory. 

"James."

Hathaway looked left, attempted a polite smile as David Leominster, of all people, approached him from the colonnaded aisle. Apart from his white dog collar, David looked much the same. Oh, there were silver streaks in the dark hair and a heavy gold ring on his left hand, but his face was still relatively unlined, his brown eyes still bright with malice. Hathaway asked, "How are you?"

David shrugged one shoulder, blinked slowly. "Attending to the needs. Yourself?"

"Still on the job," said Hathaway, facing the altar once again. He ignored David's open perusal of his body, the slight smile. "I hadn't realized you were here at Christ Church."

"Where else would I go? Besides, I quite like our little town. You never know who you're going to run into."

Right, enough. "I need to speak to the Dean."

"Oh! Just like that?" David huffed in mock incredulity. "Noble Saint James arriving from the aether with an important message? Should I check for wings?"

Hathaway's cheeks grew hot as he flushed with anger. "Do I need to ask someone else? I am here on official business."

"Ah, yes, I'd heard you'd become a po- _lice_ man," David cocked his head to one side. "And how is that working for you?"

Wanting to slug the good Reverend Father, Hathaway stilled instead, let his face fall into what Robbie called his 'inscrutable' look. "The Dean."

David hesitated for the only the briefest of moments before turning on his heel, but Hathaway was satisfied by the readjustment of his character he had seen in David's eyes. Some things had changed, then. Some more than others.

David was taller than Hathaway, and a swift walker, so it took little more than 10 minutes to get to the Dean's office. Silence reigned, for which Hathaway was grateful. Besides, he was damned if he was going to let David get to him any more than he already had.

Dean Reverend Patrick Wooten turned out to be slim and short and friendly in the manner of one who had overcome many diversities in life without losing their innate sense of joy. Hathaway wasn't sure which he hated more, himself for being jealous, or Wooten for being able to rise above whatever had happened to him.

"I've been expecting someone from the police," Wooten said, heading towards a small table which held a tea tray and its accoutrements. "Tea?"

"Please, one sugar," answered Hathaway, taking a seat in front of Wooten's old fashioned wooden desk. The office was everything one could expect; filled with dark furniture and burgundy velvet drapes, bookcases lining two walls, a fireplace with an actual wood fire burning within it, comfortable wing backs in leather and cream chintz. On the desk there was a new laptop purring quietly on one front corner, a stack of manila folders on the other, several volumes of poetry - Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen - along with Thomas Moore's 'Care of the Soul' on the third, and on a plant stand by the window, current copies of The Tablet and Salt of the Earth. Well now, that was a surprise.

"James prefers his tea with milk and sugar and a biscuit, if you please," commented David. 

"That will be all, David, thank you," said Wooten mildly. He handed Hathaway a cup of tea (no milk), two custard creme biscuits on the saucer. "If you leave now you won't be late for class."

"Of course," David uncrossed his legs, stood. His easy smile didn't quite reach his eyes as he looked at Hathaway. "James, do keep in touch. Good day."

The tea was lovely, with just enough sugar added in to take the edge off of the tannin. Hathaway eyed the biscuits, then put both cup and saucer on the desk. He retrieved his tablet and pen from his jacket pocket, looked up at Wooten and waited.

"I didn't know it would be you," Wooten said, sitting behind the desk. He squeezed a lemon slice over his tea, laid it to one side and stirred with a filigreed silver spoon.

"Me, specifically, or the Police in general?"

Wooten smiled. "You, specifically. I would fall into the old cliche of your reputation succeeding you, but I think we know rather better at this stage."

Hathaway remained silent, watching the other man carefully sip his tea, holding the china cup on handle and lip with both hands. Despite the fact he very well knew how the gossip mill ran in religious circles - honestly, they were worse than a pack of 6th form girls - he was uncomfortably surprised to find himself included in the mix.

"James, before we begin, I'd like to know what brings you here, to Christ Church, rather than Corpus Christi."

Hathaway had hoped to avoid this conversation, but Wooten was clearly a discerning man. Besides, it was still in Hathaway to respect his elders, particularly where faith was concerned. At least _that_ hadn't been completely killed by what had happened one fine April morning.

"Of course you don't have to tell me," added Wooten, holding his cup before his mouth and inhaling the steam.

"No, no, it's alright," answered Hathaway immediately. "Sometimes it's better to approach these things from the side rather than head on."

"Ah, yes. Though Christ Church is Anglican, we still hear the gossip."

Hathaway conceded the point with a nod. 

"And you won't yet have to confront the demons of your past."

The truth of it so very gently said, and Hathaway's heart jerked as if someone had plucked the strings if his soul. Because that was it exactly, and he hadn't even realized. Shame heated his cheeks as he briefly closed his eyes, wishing he'd gone directly to Corpus Christi after all. "Tell me about the murders."

"Of course. Father Franz Reichsmann worked in Africa for many years on AIDs Relief. Father Simon O'Neill did not dissuade the members of his flock from seeking infertility treatment, and Father Matthew Stone would not stop championing Liberation Theology in Latin America. In America there have been eight murders, but you know what they're like over there. The long and short of it is that each man practiced a form of the Faith not condoned by His Holiness, in fact condemned by the Holy See as well as the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"All three were broad church."

"If such a thing exists in the Roman Catholic Church, yes."

"And Iain Garvey?"

Wooten sighed heavily. He put down his cup and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "I don't know. My understanding is that he was not against homosexuality and that he did promote gay marriage."

Hathaway shook his head. He very carefully did not think about things he had said and done. But what had Garvey been thinking? Surely he would have realized neither of those ideas could ever be reconciled within the Church? "Was he open about his views?"

"I don't know about the public, but it was well known amongst the clergy."

He opened his mouth to speak, found himself asking a question he hadn't even realized he wanted to know. "Would he have made a good Reverend?"

Eyebrows lifted in surprise, Wooten blinked once, slowly. "I don't know. I don't know if he would have settled into the life. He was restless, and while I know that God has the power to solve all of our problems, I do realize that many people cannot always make their way out of the dark night of the soul."

Hathaway flipped his tablet closed and put it back into his jacket pocket, recapped his pen and stood. "Thank you for your time, Dean Wooten. I appreciate your candid answers to my questions."

The Dean walked him to the door, clapped one hand on his back as he did so. "From what I hear, Sergeant Hathaway, you would have made an excellent priest."

Once outside and headed back to the station, Hathaway smoked two fags one after the other. Despite the brightness of the day, he felt unsettled and dispirited. Maybe they could sense his unease, for people swirled around him like eddies in a stream, giving him wider than normal berth. Christ Church reminded him so much of Seminary, of that simple life of study and faith and contemplation. Of joy. 

But ignorance was not bliss, not any more, and supposedly knowledge was power. The willing obtuseness of others a bane, a crime in and of itself. Would that he could absolve himself of that sin, too.

Lewis was gone by the time Hathaway entered their office, holding cups of blessedly fresh coffee in his hands. All the more for him, then. He found a one-word note on his desk -

_HOBSON_

and nothing more. He checked his phone for texts but found nothing from Lewis. **Pint?** with Lucky and Claudia, new exhibit of the American artist **Wolf Kahn** at Modern Art Oxford, **Dinner on Friday?** with Fiona.

Yes - Yes - Maybe, you-know-how-it-is, Fiona. They had both moved on, hadn't they? 

Hadn't he?


	2. VIDI

Hathaway twitched awake, jerked upright a moment later gasping for breath. He laid one hand on his chest and yes, his heart was pounding as if after a sprint. He brushed light perspiration off of his brow, checked his phone - 02:45. There was little chance of getting any more sleep. With a shake of his head he got up, bare-chested and shivering in the chill of the air. On his way to the kitchen he turned up the heat and pulled on a wrinkled long sleeved tee still warm from the dryer.

The aftereffects of the dream led him first to the whisky, then his six stringed lady love, finally to a cup of tea, the table, and his laptop. There had to be something he was missing, some key he could find to let him into Iain Garvey's life. The room Garvey had been renting was spartan in decoration - Hathaway had been uncomfortably reminded of his flat - the only evidence of someone living there had been clothes and a few books, Hobbes, Aquinas, the usual suspects.

For some time he sat at the table, watching the steam from his tea drift ever upwards in the pale yellow light of the lamp. Eventually he closed the laptop and retrieved pen and paper, jotted down things he wanted to look at in the morning. Well, later in the morning.

He tried to read, but couldn't comprehend the words.

He surfed the web, but not even [FAILblog](http://failblog.cheezburger.com/) could keep him entertained.

Only one thing for it: a marathon of So You Think You Can Dance UK.

A few hours later he rolled off the couch greatly annoyed his favorite had not won. He showered, ate a light breakfast of tea and toast with raw heather honey, dressed, and headed to work.

Standing next to the window in the office, Hathaway scanned the list he had written and rewritten:

COMMONALITIES:

Roman Catholic - all  
Women - any?  
Manus Dei - library *only*  
David L.  
Seminary (various)  
St. Aloysius Gonzaga?

He looked at the list, then crossed off David's name. There was no reason to suspect he was involved. Honestly, he didn't even know why he'd written the name down in the first place.

"Sarge?" 

"What can you do for me, Gary?" said Hathaway, heading towards his chair.

Gary's smile didn't quite reach the rest of his face as he approached Hathaway, holding out a slip of paper. "From Sohal. Says he can't believe you didn't find it yourself, and that you owe him a pint.'

"Thanks," Hathaway promptly forgot about Gary in light of the words on the paper. Iain Garvey, a mystery to Dean Wooten, had two brothers and one sister. Both parents deceased along with the sister - ah - all on the same date. Car versus train at a level crossing in Scotland. The car lost. Whereabouts unknown for the older brother, the younger...worked at Texstyle World Home, a bed-bath-furniture type of place. Hathaway sniffed; he'd been there several times, looking for towels and the odd unscented candle.

Hathaway put his jacket on, grabbed his keys and headed out of the office. Halfway down the stairs he met Lewis coming up.

Lewis frowned, said, "D'you even sleep, man? You look like hell."

"I've got a lead on Garvey's brother. I'm meeting him now."

Lewis nodded, turned and fell into step beside Hathaway. 

Sitting on the park bench, the black paint already undecipherably tagged with neon pink graffiti, Sean Garvey looked nothing like his brother. Where Garvey was dark, Sean was blond. Where Garvey was achingly thin, Sean was broadly muscled, like a rugby player. The breeze, laden with moisture and cutting a chill despite Hathaway's wool coat, ruffled Sean's hair in a lover's caress. Above all, he had thin lips which made for a hard line in his face, as if he didn't know how to smile. Lewis had clearly taken an instant dislike to the man, and so had Hathaway, for no reason he could discern. 

"Iain was always difficult, always troubled," said Sean, reaching into his jacket pocket. He brought out a cheap gold tie clip and carefully clipped his tie to his crayon purple shirt before leaning forward, elbows on knees. "He wasn't my full brother, just a half. My dad left his mum after I was born, and then my sister was born a year later. Never liked him much, though he could kick a ball about pretty good."

"Must have been tough on him, after your dad left," said Lewis, making no effort to soften his disdain. He shifted directly in front of Sean, close enough to force the other man to look up at him. "My lad would have been devastated to lose me at that age."

Sean shrugged and straightened up. "He was old enough to know what was going on. Besides, it wasn't like he didn't ever see Dad. He came over for Christmas, and once even for half-term. Seemed to like the couch well enough."

Lewis twitched towards Sean, and Hathaway almost grabbed his arm to hold him back. He didn't know what was up with his Governor, but it wasn't like him to be so aggressive during interviews. With the blink of an eye towards Hathaway, Lewis caught himself and stepped back from Sean. Hathaway brought out the photo that had been in Garvey's pocket and showed it to Sean. "Do you recognize the man in this picture?"

Sean peered at it briefly, then snorted and looked away. "Stephen Syfransky. Iain's boyfriend," he made air quotes, "if you can believe it. Half his age! Should be illegal, that sort of thing. It's not right."

"Iain was gay?"

"God, no," Sean's lips wrinkled in disgust. "He was engaged, was going to marry this lovely girl, Louisa, when Stephen came along and seduced him. Left Louisa standing at the altar, sent her a bloody text message," he shook his head. "The bastard. I could've killed him. Turns out Louisa was pregnant, not that he's ever given a shite about his son. And if you're thinking I did it, I didn't even know where he lived until this morning. Didn't even know he was dead."

And quite obviously didn't care. Hathaway looked at Lewis, saw he was ready to leave. "We'll be in contact, Mr. Garvey."

"If you find Daniel, you can tell him about Iain."

"Your eldest brother is hiking in the Himalayas, Mr. Garvey," said Hathaway, letting his face go still. "Perhaps you should think about contacting him yourself. I'm sure he'll be glad to know he still has family remaining."

In the car Lewis sighed heavily. "Is it just me, Hathaway, or are people more callous these days? The man was a blood relative, you'd think his brother would have a little compassion, a little feeling about it."

Hathaway waited for a white transit van to pass before pulling out onto the road. "' _To burn the lodging where you use to lie, and you within it._ '" he quoted, quickly glancing at Robbie.

Lewis eyed him sidelong. "Bloody Shakespeare again, isn't it."

"Yes, from As You Like it."

"Isn't that supposed to be a comedy?"

"They took what they could get, sir."

"So what have we learned, here?"

"Garvey was possibly gay, possibly bisexual. He was scarred by his father's desertion of the family, didn't get on with his younger brother, and was most likely suffering from post-traumatic stress due to Piper Alpha."

"He was on Piper Alpha?"

Hathaway nodded. "He was hired and trained by OPCAL directly upon leaving school, and was one of the lucky ones that night. Afterwards, he became a reclamations diver, then went into the Merchant Marine. Along the way he earned degrees in biology and theology before joining seminary," he switched gears, passed an ancient and dangerous Reliant Robin. "Damned things shouldn't be allowed on the road."

"Me mam learned to drive on one of those!"

"It's a wonder you're here at all."

"Enough about me. Can we get back to the case now?"

"Sean doesn't know anything about his brother's death, I think that much is clear."

"No, but we have to find this Stephen Syfransky. What prompted Garvey to join the priesthood - did you find out where he went to Seminary?"

"Blessed John the Twenty-Third National Seminary in Weston, just outside Boston. In America," clarified Hathaway, turning into the parking lot. "It's designed for mature students embarking on a second career."

From the corner of his eye he saw Lewis open his mouth, think better of it, merely opening his door instead. Wise man. He certainly hadn't forgotten that conversation in the car, and from the looks of it, neither had Lewis. A fact for which he was now grateful, given it was unlikely Lewis would make any comment.

They gathered coffee on the way in, both heading straight to their respective desks. 

Hathaway reviewed the short list he had written earlier, then crumpled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket. The past was a foreign country he did not care to revisit. Which was ridiculous, because Lewis was the one who mattered, even though Lewis already knew more about Hathaway than anyone except for his Gran, who was long gone. He felt sick to his stomach, admitting to himself - again - how much Lewis' respect meant to him. Of how much he never wanted to see that look of hurt disappointment in Lewis' face again.

The worst part was how quickly he had fallen under Lewis' spell. For a long time he'd tried to convince himself that he had merely been in awe of Lewis' skills of detection, of his inability to keep his compassion quiet. It was part of what made him such a good copper - he was an honest man. There were some who dismissed this as a sham, who ridiculed Lewis, but this was Thames Valley, not Sun Hill. They weren't the Sweeney, racing around in fast cars and dating loose women.

Hathaway sighed again.

Had he _really_ just used the term 'loose'? Clearly he was having a Moment.

"Dreaming of pretty books, Sergeant?"

Acknowledging the comment with a lifted eyebrow, Hathaway twirled his pen with one hand. "Something like that."

Lewis pecked at his keyboard for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "Why do you think no one from the Church has come to the Police? Not just here, but anywhere?"

Hathaway shook his head. "Internecine politics? Given they happened in different countries, I doubt anyone would have thought it was anything other than random happenstance."

"But Dean Wooten knew what had happened everywhere, so how come no one else has made the connections?"

"Only God knows."

Lewis flicked him an exasperated glance. "Talk to Wooten again, find out if anyone could have been in all of those places at the same time."

Hathaway did as requested, managed to get into Wooten's office with a minimum of fuss despite the lack of appointment. This time he was served coffee, rather than tea. He hummed a little at the deliciousness on his tongue, the cream enriching the natural sweetness of the varietal, whatever it was, and ever so slightly taming the acidity. 

"Good, isn't it," Wooten said, placing a dessert plate of vanilla wafers and another of chocolate truffles and salted caramels on the edge of his desk. "My sister runs a small coffee farm in Ethiopia, sends me a couple of kilos every year."

"It's fantastic," murmured Hathaway. He put his cup down with regret. 

"I know you didn't come here for the coffee, though," Wooten chose the chair next to Hathaway, reaching forward to get one of the beige biscuits. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. "I don't suppose there's any chance you're interested in becoming Anglican?"

"Those days are long behind me. What I need is a list of people who might have been around the deceased, wherever they died."

Wooten stared at him. "You don't ask for much, do you? Having said that, I'm afraid I really can't help. You need to speak to someone at Corpus Christi."

Which was not what Hathaway wanted to hear.

"James...there are many things I can do for you, but more specific information - well, anything outside of gossip, really - is not one of them. I can see how conflicted you are - "

"No. No, not about this," said Hathaway with a quick shake of his head. "This is my job, this is what I do. My personal history has no place in this investigation."

Wooten's smile was very soft. "And yet, here you are. Now," he said, his voice turning brisk. "tell me how you met David."


	3. VICI

Stephen Syfransky was American. He was also black, with an unidentifiable accent that Hathaway figured could be anywhere from New England to California. He was a pacer, walking around the interview room like a thoroughbred waiting at the wire. Hathaway nodded at Lewis, carefully balanced the two cups of lukewarm tea in one hand, opened the interview room door and stepped in. "Please take a seat, Mr. Syfransky."

"Is that tea?" asked Syfransky, slipping onto the chair quickly. He took a sip, gave the cup a dirty look, sipped again. "Jesus Christ, you people really know how to ruin a drink."

Hathaway pressed 'play' on the DAT. "The time is oh-four-hundred oh-one. This is Detective Sergeant James Hathaway, Constable Allen Murray is also in the room. Please state your name."

"Professor Stephen James Syfransky, Merton College," said Syfransky, winking at Hathaway over the complicity of their names. 

"How did you feel about Iain Garvey's involvement in the Church?"

"We argued about it, a lot," Syfransky shook his head with a small, disbelieving frown. "I thought he was a fool and he thought I didn't understand. I was brought up Baptist, of course I understand."

"But you didn't agree with his choice."

"Course not. We're two men in a homosexual relationship. The last thing I wanted him to do for a living was be a priest in the RCC. Which isn't, if you haven't noticed, open to these newfangled ideas on love and marriage."

Hathaway said, "Was he having problems returning to the Church?"

Syfransky raised his eyebrows. "He wasn't raised in the Church, he converted. We'd been living together for only six months when he decided to join, and then he couldn't get it out of his head, like a virus."

"Why do you think that was?"

"I don't know. No, I do, guilt. He was looking for a way out of getting married to Louisa - you know about Louisa, right? - yeah, we met at a quiz night at a pub a couple of weeks before the wedding. A one night stand, I thought, love 'em and leave 'em before I headed back to the States," Syrfransky drank the rest of his tea in several long gulps, then started peeling his paper cup. "And here I am, eight years later."

"We spoke to Sean, he was under the impression you had stolen Iain away from Louisa."

"Oh, please. Sean's an asshole. And he plays the field himself, not that his shrew of a wife will ever see that in a million years. No," Syfransky leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Louisa was ultimately grateful Iain had left her at the altar. Well, not that specific part of it, but the rest, yeah. She's got Alec and half of all of Iain's benefits, we made sure of that before we got hitched. Of course it doesn't matter now, does it? Iain got what he wanted, Louisa got what she wanted..."

"Were you still in a relationship with Iain after he joined the priesthood?"

Syfransky huffed an incredulous laugh. "Are you fucking kidding me? I got kicked to the curb so fast it made my head spin. Thing is, we'd bought a house together. He didn't have the cash to buy me out, but he didn't want to live with me either. He couldn't make me move out, so he decided to start living in whatever place would have him," Syfransky glanced at his pile of paper cup, gave a resigned shrug. "I don't really know what I'm going to do, now. I've been offered tenure at Merton, but I don't know if I can stand to stay in this country after all that's happened."

Hathaway waited a moment longer, then asked, "Why do you think Iain was killed?"

Syfransky shook his head. "Beats me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I loved the guy, but he could be a complete and utter asshole without any warning. I blame it on his PTSD, y'know, from Piper Alpha? That's the kind of thing anyone would have difficulty with, but come on, it's been almost 25 years. And before you ask, no, it wasn't me. I was attending a lecture at Aberdeen University and only flew back after Ursula phoned me with the news."

"You seem to be coping well," Hathaway commented.

"I never thought it would end this way. But the truth is that I was finally over him. Never thought I'd say that, either,"

Lewis was shaking his head when Hathaway joined him in front of the two way mirror. "Louisa either hated Iain's guts or was grateful to him. Someone's telling porky pies, problem is, I can't figure out which one of them it is."

"I don't think it matters," said Hathaway. "I think they're all incidental players in this little drama."

Lewis looked at him in surprise. "You know something I don't?"

Hathaway sighed. "I don't want to talk about this here."

"Alright then," said Lewis in a tone that expected answers, and good ones at that.

The weather had improved considerably in the hours since Hathaway had arrived at work, yet even so he was glad Lewis had insisted on them wearing their outerwear.

"There have been deaths worldwide, all Roman Catholic, almost all priests," he said, eyeing the dregs of his cigarette instead of looking at Lewis, because Lewis would know he wasn't being completely honest. "The only other connection between them appears to be political. In each case the root cause of their deaths could be laid at the feet of local politics in their respective countries."

"Are we talking the usual suspects? Abortion, gay rights, that sort of thing?"

"More or less. We tend to forget how dangerous it is to be outspoken in places like Uganda and Ukraine, Mexico and Columbia. In any case it was easy for the local police to write off those deaths."

"And the Church wasn't interested in finding the culprits?"

"It's complicated," Hathaway stabbed his cigarette through the eye of the tube steel butt holder, stuffed his hands into his pockets. "The Church may appear monolithic from the outside, but there are just as many factions within as without, especially as one gets further along the hierarchy."

"No so different from the Police, then."

"Just on a larger scale and with much greater influence."

Lewis frowned. 

Hathaway didn't have the heart to tell him it was much worse than he would ever suspect. It was much worse than _he_ had suspected. How he could have been so stupid for so long was an enigma. Perhaps it was just willing suspension of disbelief, having found the place he thought he fit in. A hot blush of shame swept through him - _again_ \- Was it never going to stop? 

"Hmm. We know that none of the murders occurred on Church soil, so our killer or killers probably consider themselves good Catholics," murmured Lewis. He shot Hathaway an apologetic glance. "I've been through this before, with Morse."

"And a priest alone in a church would be perfect for a murder."

"You don't say," huffed Lewis. "You don't think this is random, do you."

Hathaway stared at the dull scrape on the leather of his shoe, distracted himself wondering if he had any polish left at home. "No. It isn't random at all. I don't know what the connection is yet," _liar!_ "I just know that there is one."

They watched several cars pass, then Lewis suddenly turned to Hathaway and said, "What about staff? Chief Constable Barnard always uses the same driver on his visits, and I know Innocent prefers Amelia Zirin or Andy Bartlett whenever she needs a driver. What if it's not the locals who are doing the killings, but someone within the personal staff of each victim?"

Hathaway nodded slowly. "I could call St. Aloysius Gonzaga. They might be more willing than most to pass on any information that could actually be of help."

Within fifteen minutes he had what he needed to know, and after updating Innocent, Hathaway was driving them to St. Benet's Hall. 

"C'mon, let's go," Lewis had said, trotting down the stairs. "I want to talk to him myself."

Because Hathaway was too involved, was the unspoken message. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't deny that truth, that there was the possibility he would miss something because of his history. After all, it wouldn't be the first time.


	4. MACTAMUS TE

 

"There he is," muttered Hathaway, striding forward. David saw him across the quad and attempted to both acknowledge him with a nod and ignore him by looking away. Unfortunately for David there were no convenient passersby for him to escape to, no one to rescue him with a cheery 'Hello!' or 'Reservations at 6' chatter. Hathaway drew himself up as tall and intimidating as possible, stepped directly into David's path. "Inspector Lewis has a few questions for you."

He noted with no little satisfaction David's unease. Yes, there it was; the shifting feet, the fingers repeatedly gripping the two manilla folders, leaving dark marks on the thick, buff paper. His eyes flicked from Lewis to Hathaway and back again, a subtle flush rising on his cheeks. That would be down to what Hathaway privately called the 'Lewis Effect'. Once his voice reached that low, gravelled timbre, suspects were history. It was as if they were caught in the claws of a predator and could nothing but freeze and hope for the best. Hathaway had studied Lewis countless times during initial interviews and this, this stillness of his, this implacable hyper-awareness lurking beneath the calm, stodgy exterior never failed to amaze him. He suspected it was natural to Lewis' character, that investigative work had brought it out of him. Frankly, he wondered if he could learn the trick of it himself.

"Of course I'm familiar with those countries, I grew up all around the world! I don't see what that has to do with your investigation. I don't understand why you're even talking to me. James, you know all this already."

But that wasn't the point, as David very well knew, Hathaway could see it in his face, the little spark of excitement he could never keep well hidden. It was all a game to David, a power play. Hathaway was, unfortunately, one of the  
privileged few who had see his other side. And Will, of course. God help them both.

"And your duties there?" asked Lewis.

David didn't quite snort. "Administering to the faithful, Inspector. Surely even you can understand that."

Hathaway moved a little closer to David, watched him hold back from twitching away. "We understand you spent years abroad, but with whom, and why?"

"With many people, James - "

Lewis interrupted. "Detective Sergeant Hathaway."

"De- _tec_ -tive _Ser_ -geant _Hath_ -a-way," David slowly enunciated, the words polite, the tone mocking. "I was but one of many people on an InterFaith mission."

Hathaway could practically see the wheels turning in the other man's head, trying to work this new information to his advantage. As if there were something to be taken advantage of.

"And as for the people I traveled with, off the top of my head? Father Franz Reichsmann, Father Matthew Stone, Rabbi Shmuel Gartenstein, the Sisters of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Imam Ahmed Sultan from some mosque in London. Listen, how many do you want? I can send you a complete list in the morning."

"Why are you here?" Hathaway asked abruptly. "I spoke to Elizabeth at St. Aloysius Gonzaga, so don't you tell me it's for InterFaith relations."

"Elizabeth Li," scoffed David. "St. Aloysius is a vanity project with no value for true Catholics of any variety."

Lewis jumped in before Hathaway could defend St. Aloysius. "Answer the question. And if you don't want to do it here we can always go down to the Station."

David physically recoiled from Lewis. "On what basis? You have no legal right!"

Hathaway reached behind and underneath his jacket for handcuffs. 

"Alright! Fine, you don't have to do that," David spat. Glancing around to see if there was any one who could over hear, he said in a low voice, "I went to see the Master's Council."

The Master's Council? 

"A branch of Manus Dei."

Hathaway rocked back on his heels, then spoke before David could twist Manus Dei into something real, something normal. More to the point, something Lewis would research. "A rumour, a myth. A secret society within the Church with the goal of bringing all Catholics back to the fold. Even those who were Catholic, including Anglicans and Episcopalians," At Lewis' look of utter incomprehension, he added, "Think Dan Brown, sir, the Da Vinci Code."

"It's real, James! Manus Dei is real!" David choked out through gritted teeth, clutching his manila folders even more tightly. "From whom do you think Professor Sutherland was getting such funding? It certainly wasn't from the Seminary! All those trips to Rome, to Mexico City, to Africa - do you really think he was there for conferences? I never thought you were that thick!"

"What of it?" Lewis jumped in. "What does Manus Dei have to do with all of these deaths?"

David shrank into himself, hunched over in a manner Hathaway almost found believable. 

"You can't use my name. You can't use any of this, James, tell him!" Papers fluttered to the ground as David reached and grabbed Hathaway by the wrist.

Hathaway whipped his arm back, breaking the hold and barely managing to keep himself from punching David right in the face. _Damn_ the man!

Lewis had David's hands behind his back in the blink of an eye. "Right, that's it."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said David, looking down and over his shoulder at Lewis. "I'm alright, I'll behave, I promise."

Hathaway nodded shortly at Lewis.

"James, I'm sorry. You just have to understand the way that I didn't, not at first. These people are dangerous - "

Whether it was the truth or a lie, Hathaway couldn't tell. But...David did seem frightened. 'Seem' being the operative word. "Tell us everything."

David rolled his shoulders, then bent to collect his papers. "After you left - " he squinted up at Hathaway. "Do you know how badly they wanted you? Handsome, intelligent, educated. Well-spoken yet discreet. Their dream personified. Anyway, after you left they came to me. I was proud to be a member of Manus Dei. I saw things I had never dreamed of," Staring at the ground in bemusement, he shook his head and stood again. "As time passed I realized they were doing things, nothing of course that I could put my finger on. Whispers all around me, James."

Right then and there Hathaway decided it didn't matter if David was making fabrications or not. They would have to balance carefully on the shifting sands of his character. But then, that was what they did best, was it not? "They traveled with you? As what, staff?"

"Obviously. I was never without a keeper, and you know how much I don't like to be kept. You police, you don't want me, you want the underlings, those asps you never see crawling in your midst until it's too late. You want Jack Shepherd, and Urbano diNapoli, John Weaver, Eddie Smith, Charles Vanderpost. They were all at the Seminary when we were there, James. You'll remember once you see them."

There were more. More people and places, David rattling along as if he weren't the liar Hathaway knew him to be. Nonetheless he wrote everything down, and in shorthand his own suspicions and suggestions. 

"Don't leave town, David," called Hathaway, watching him shuffle away, trying to reorder the papers in the folder without dropping them again.

"Let's head back and check out these names," Lewis said. He held out his hand and Hathaway dropped the car keys onto his palm.

"Manus Dei is a true legend," murmured Hathaway a few minutes later, searching on his phone for pertinent links to forward to Lewis' email as the light turned red. "I don't know whether or not we should believe anything he said."

"Was he the type to lie at Seminary?"

"Lying isn't quite the right word. He's the kind of man who enjoys the joke of watching someone squirm because he didn't mention something at an opportune time," he shook his head in frustration. "And yet he clearly told untruths time after time. I can't pretend to understand him, only to be wary of him."

"Sounds like you had some experience with him."

Hathaway frowned. "Nothing so simple, sir. And I wasn't directly involved, not at first."

No, that had been poor Will, not that Hathaway was blameless. In retrospect he wondered if that was where it had all started, his...whatever...with David. Will questioning what he had been taught, his burgeoning relationship with Feardorcha, his thoughts about love and how interpretation of the word of God twisted everything. Walking in on the two of them had been shocking, Will busy between David's legs, David's triumphant smirk. That had been the worst part of it, the glee with which David had pulled Will's head down hard, making him sputter and choke as Hathaway had stopped short. David had been very circumspect with what he told to whom, and when. Casually cruel, and to what end? At least David had kept the fact of his sleeping with Will quiet. Will might not have understood that, but Hathaway had, even though he wouldn't have been able to articulate it at the time. All he had known was that the both of them were sinners. 

And later, when David had made his interest in Hathaway known - . It still made his skin crawl.

"Tell me more about Manus Dei."

"Manus Dei, the supposed power behind the Pope and so secret no one's ever admitted to knowing anyone in the group, presuming it even exists."

"You think it unlikely?"

Hathaway shrugged and lied through his teeth. "David could tell me the sky was blue and I'd have to go outside and check. I don't see why this would be any different."

After getting a very late lunch - really, it bordered on 'very early dinner' - and upon getting the addresses and phone numbers of their potential suspects, they struck out on the road once more, just a few more things to do before turning in for the night.

Clara Schumann - who was not the least impressed when Lewis perked up and said, "Like the pianist!" - did not invite them into her home. So they stood on her doorstep as she smoked her cigarette, answering 'yes' and 'no' with all the enthusiasm of someone who had seen too much and was resigned to doing too little. Which clearly didn't keep her living vicariously through the lives of others. 

"Yeah, I see Lizzie all the time, we like to get a drink or two over at the Royal. John's in Nigeria now, working in the oil fields. Eddie and Urbano are still at the Seminary. That's all I know from when Charles worked there, bless him."

They were walking away when she called, "Oh yeah, he changed his name."

Lewis stopped. "Pardon?"

"Chris, Chris Carver. Before he left he used to talk about changing his name, something to reflect his new spiritual state," she said, using air quotes. She padded down the steps, fuzzy, sugar pink slippers contrasting artily against the stained concrete slabs of the walkway, the outdoor light casting long, monster slipper-shaped shadows.

Hathaway brought his phone out of his pocket. "Do you remember what it was?" 

She shrugged. "Sounded the same to me. Come to think of it, Jack Shephard changed his name too, something foreign, something to do with the Hindoos. You could ask at that place up the road, the mosque."

"Alright, thanks," said Lewis, turning away. Quietly, he muttered, "I still want to check everyone's location, make sure she's got the right end of the stick. But that's enough for tonight," said Lewis, tossing Hathaway the keys.

Thirty minutes later they pulled up in front of Lewis' building. Hathaway unfolded himself out of the driver's seat to stretch his legs. "See you in the morning."

"Aye," said Lewis, hiding a yawn behind one hand. "Night."

Despite the lack of sleep from the night before, Hathaway wasn't particularly tired and going home held little appeal. He decided to return to the Station and search the records for Shepherd and Carver. And if he couldn't find them, there were other names to look for, other people to find.

After a couple of hours and only a few answers, Hathaway gave up. Two locations were on his way home, though, so no trouble to stop and do some brief interviews.

The night was absolutely frigid even without a breeze as Hathaway rapped sharply on the door, bouncing on his toes in an attempt to keep the cold at bay. Looking around the cul-de-sac once more, he noted the detached houses on the other side that were only half built, the KEEP OUT signs posted on their doors, proof of the downturn of the economy. Odd, considering property in Oxford came at a premium. Then again, there was little kerb appeal here. The neighborhood, set on the border of a small industrial estate, was shabby, as if the new owners had discovered that buying a house wasn't quite the same as making it a home. The kiddie park next to Number 68 was already covered in graffiti, the rubber mulch underneath the swing set littered with empty alcopop bottles. Above his head there was a burnt out street light, and he felt a little trepidation at leaving his car alone. It was hardly the newest model, but he preferred it in its current condition as opposed to the tireless wreck at Number 27. The cold weather should keep the worst human elements inside instead of making mischief outside. 

Hopefully.

Just as he was raising his hand to knock again, the door opened, an older man wearing glasses, a full beard, and, of all things, denim overalls with a forest green, long-sleeved shirt underneath standing before him.

"Yes?"

Hathaway immediately showed his Warrant card, reached into his coat for the photograph of Iain Garvey. "Detective Sergeant Hathaway, Thames Valley Police."

"Bob Mulcahy. What can I do for you?"

"Have you seen this man?" asked Hathaway, holding up the photo.

Eyebrows arched in surprise, Mulcahy nodded. "Yes, yes I have. Please come in, but do take off your shoes."

Glancing through open doorways as he followed the man down the hall, Hathaway could see that the house was glaringly, achingly, Arcticly white. Bright white tile in the kitchen, swirled Artex ceilings, white leather and chrome suite in the lounge, limed wood spindles and bannister leading to the first floor landing, a plain white runner up the middle of the stairs. 

The door in the wall under the stairs was slanted to accommodate the risers, and unlike the broom closet Hathaway was expecting, there was another set of stairs leading downwards. 

Mulcahy pulled the light chain and flipped one hand at Hathaway. "I found a secret storeroom in the basement when I moved in. Wasn't expecting it at all, but there are pictures of that man down there. Haven't had time to take them down yet, but you're welcome to look if you like."

Hathaway stepped past him, ducking down so as not to hit his head. He noted the odor of fresh paint, hesitated, frowned. There was movement out of the corner of his eye and as he began to turn two hands touched him on shoulder and forearm and oh-so-gently pushed him down the stairs.


	5. LUNAR EDGE OF BLUE

He opened his eyes to absolute darkness. He lurched forward, was brought up short by the clank of chain and heavy, icy weight at his wrists. Which were, he abruptly realized, next to his ears. Because he was chained to...a wall. A brick wall by the feel of it against his knuckles. An old one, the rough surface crumbling lightly at his touch. Turning his hands around, he felt eyelet bolts that had been screwed into the wall. There was no way to tell how old they were, but when he experimentally pulled on them a few times, they refused to budge. The clasps at his wrists were wide, wider than anything modern. Manacles, then, rather than handcuffs. But where, and how, did Carver find them? More to the point, how the hell was Hathaway going to get out of them? He shivered, realized he was no longer wearing his wool overcoat or suit jacket. Even his socks had been removed.

Thumping his head against the brick did not bring any clarity apart from the foolishness of his actions. Lewis was going to be very angry with him if and when he managed to extricate himself from the situation. And there was no denying Hathaway had been a fool - he had recognized Mulcahy - formerly Chris and now Krishna, Carver as soon as he had opened the front door. His plan, such as it was, had been to engage Carver in small talk, then excuse himself to call Robbie and get Uniform to Number 68 as soon as possible.

Hathaway shifted, trying to ease the discomfort in his aching shoulders. His forehead itched madly from dried blood pulling at his skin and he could not breathe through his nose. Feeling his face with one hand, he rubbed the blood off of his brow, gently palpated his nose with fingers stiff from the cold. Judging only by how mild the pain was, his nose was badly bruised, not broken.

Bright light flooded his vision and he cried out, whipping his head to one side and covering his eyes with his arm. Drawing his knees up in the hope of knocking Carver away, he took a few deep breaths, tried to calm his racing mind and think, _think._

Blinking hard, Hathaway turned and looked quickly around the room, hoping to find something he could use against Carver. This time he was grateful the room had been painted white; it was ever so much easier to see there was nothing nearby. Returning his attention to the stairs, all he could see was a blur of a human figure. Instead of approaching Hathaway, however, he moved away, towards the bench and thick wooden table at the back of the room. His vision clearing, now Hathaway could see the vice clamps on one side of the table, the open toolbox, and displayed on the wall the hand saws, screwdrivers, metal shears, secateurs, and more, all items he was more than familiar with from his father's workrooms at the estate.

"James Hathaway, Detective Sergeant for Thames Valley Police, former Seminary student, almost priest, late of Crevecoeur Hall. Quite the life of extremes you've led."

Unnerved by the recital, Hathaway made sure his voice was steady and filled with confidence. "Uniform are on their way, Carver. We know who you are and what you look like, there's no way you can escape."

Carver took a chisel from the toolbox and started towards Hathaway. Stopping short of where Hathaway could reach with his legs, Carver crouched down and tapped the chisel on the rough cement floor. "I know, you're thinking if I don't stop I'll blunt my instrument, but maybe that's what I want. Maybe I want you to feel the pain more, you i _dol_ ater, you _a_ postate, man who lays with other _men._ "

The worst part was the lack of madness in Carver's eyes, Hathaway decided. Put Carver in a suit and tie, shave his beard and trim his hair and he would look no different from any other bloke on the street.

"I've been watching you, y'know. Ever since I came across you at Cambridge. Ah, you didn't know that, did you? For a smart man you are remarkably stupid," Carver stood, the slightest of smiles on his lips. He walked behind the staircase, still talking. "They spoke about you, y'know, after you left. Couldn't get enough of the _scan_ dal."

Hathaway managed to twist his hands enough to grasp the chains by his shoulders. He tugged hard - nothing. He heard clinking, the squeal of metal on metal - unfortunately not from his manacles - and then the thunderous rush of liquid into a container. 

"Have you figured it out yet?" called Carver.

"Figured out what?"

Carver remained silent.

After a moment Hathaway said loudly, "You know me from Seminary."

The noise stopped and Carver came back to Hathaway, holding a rubber barn bucket with both hands. "Yes," he said, and then threw the contents of the bucket at Hathaway.

He jerked back, nearly knocking himself out on the brick, but the liquid was just water, freezing water. It drenched his head, ran down his shirt collar and underneath all the way down to his waist. He gasped and shook his head.

"You were the star student. The one who walked away from it all," Still holding the bucket with one hand, Carver tilted his head to one side. "Why?"

"Personal reasons," snapped Hathaway.

"You couldn't keep your attraction to men at bay, serve God without your filthy desires," sneered Carver. 

Hathaway huffed a laugh. " _My_ desires were never the problem."

Carver went stone still, his face the very picture of displeasure. "Shut up."

"Didn't you know? So many did," mocked Hathaway. "It was certainly common knowledge amongst our betters."

"You - you shut _up_ , you _liar!_ "

Oh, he was on to something now. "With my very own eyes I saw it, I did."

Carver balled his fists and before Hathaway could do more than blink, hurled the bucket at him. Carver followed a second later, slamming his fist onto Hathaway's head. A stroke of luck as Hathaway was able to get his forearm up and over just enough to protect most of his skull. Carver punched him again and again, changed tactics and shoved Hathaway's head against the brick instead. Stunned, Hathaway kicked, missed, kicked again and made contact, sweeping one of Carver's legs out from underneath him. Carver fell forward awkwardly, landing on his side next to Hathaway. 

Hathaway dizzily twisted around and faced the wall, the manacles pulling painfully on his wrists when his arms crossed. He kneed Carver in the back, putting his full weight down until he felt the snap of ribs breaking. Carver howled and rolled to his hands and knees. Bracing himself on the brick, he started getting to his feet, but Hathaway, using the chains to pull himself to his knees again, leaned against him hard, knocking his head into the wall.

It wasn't enough. Carver shoved up onto his hands, forcing Hathaway hard onto his other knee. For a moment neither one had the advantage, but as Carver lurched up, Hathaway leaned into him hard, forcing him head first into the wall. Carver grunted, the sound cut off when Hathaway wrapped one arm around his throat and squeezed. 

Eventually the adrenalin rush drained away and he slumped sideways against the wall, exhausted and cold. Deep shudders wracked him from head to foot, and he felt a little removed from the whole situation. The sticky itch on the back of his neck spoke of fresh blood, which probably explained the wooziness, too. At least Carver was still warm. Hathaway thought he should maybe be more disgusted at the idea of taking heat from the man, but he was _not_ going to die in this grotty basement, he _was not_. And he was pretty sure Carver was going to live, too. Though if no one came to find them, Carver would go first and then he would die of hypothermia. As it was, he could barely feel his toes.

It was almost poetic, dying in this white room in this white house. Hathaway turned his head a little, eyed the dark red smeared on the white paint. There were droplets and hand prints like the drawings of toddlers. SOCO would have a field day. He hoped it would be Charlie Choi, and not Laura. Laura would be devastated. Professional, of course, but devastated nonetheless. Besides, Charlie had the more twisted sense of humour and would make everyone laugh.

Shifting to lessen contact with the wall and the floor, still wet from water and now, less pleasant substances, Hathaway shut his eyes on the bright and let his mind drift. There were prayers he could say, of course, beseeching the aid of God to keep Carver alive, to keep himself alive, to end the streak of terror with a convenient death.

The simple fact, however, was that he just could not summon up the energy for any of it. He sat and stared at the opposite wall, looked at the tools and the bench and the stairs. He tucked his feet underneath Carver's legs, moved as close to the other man as he could until the strain on his arms and wrists became too much.

He kept falling asleep, only to startle awake, heart going like the clappers. It happened again and again until he was so worn out sleep eluded him entirely. Consequently he watched without opinion when Uniform cautiously crept down the stairs. He saw the shock on their faces, and then the chain of heads turning and turning, pale faces looking ever upward, mouths opening and closing. 

Hathaway closed his eyes and everything drifted to black.


	6. EXCUSE ME, SIR

He couldn't stop shaking. Deep, quaking shudders that obscurely made him ashamed of his lack of control. He was barely able to clutch at the lapels of Robbie's jacket, still warm from the heat of Robbie's body. Himself was near the stairs, his white shirt practically aglow in the cast of the SOCOs lights. Lewis gestured sharply towards him, but Hathaway couldn't hear what he said above the roaring in his ears.

He sat.

He shook.

He tried to breathe slow and found himself with a racing heart, reliving the attack all over again. (and then Carver lying still and slumped where he had crumpled to the ground) 

"Come on, lad, time to get you to hospital," said Lewis, crouched down in front of him. "You can't refuse treatment by the medics and then expect me to ignore what's happened to you."

Feeling logy and lethargic, like he'd just woken up from a heavy nap, Hathaway looked up and around. "I need to make my statement."

Lewis frowned, nodded once sharply. "You already have."

After a long moment, Hathaway realized Lewis actually wanted him to move. He stood, wobbled a bit before regaining his balance, made his way past the staring SOCOs, past the concern and the apology and DI Dutton's silent amusement. This time the journey from the basement, up the stairs and down the hallway was very long, even though it was merely a matter of a few steps to the front door, out into the flat light of an overcast day threatening snow. But the pain and the cold had settled into his bones and he had to go slowly. Lewis' car was parked just outside the front step, so he went and sat in the passenger seat, refusing to meet his Governor's steady gaze. Lewis hesitated, then turned the key in the ignition and started the car. He put the heater on high, but it simply wasn't enough to warm Hathaway through.

Full darkness had fallen by the time they were finished in accident and emergency and though Hathaway fought to stay awake, the painkillers he had taken sent him off to a drowsy state where he was merely aware of being in the car, Lewis by his side. Lewis, whom he trusted above everyone. He opened his eyes fully only when the car stopped. Yes, home. 

Hathaway made sure Lewis couldn't seem him smile as he shuffled up the three steps to his apartment building, holding the jacket tightly around his shoulders. Robbie was very carefully hovering just out of his sight until Hathaway reached the front door, and then he noticed Lewis trotting back down the steps. Looking over his shoulder he saw Lewis open the boot, grab his overnight bag, shut the boot, return with keys in hand. "You should take your jacket," Hathaway said, idly noting his own exhalation expanding in a white cloud under the street light. 

Lewis didn't even glance at him, merely set key to door once, and then again into Hathaway's flat. "In you go," he said.

Once inside Hathaway realized he needed the toilet and headed straight there. Business concluded (including a brief session of dry heaving), he wiped blood off of his face and neck, washed his hands thoroughly three times, then decided to throw caution and medical advice to the wind. He was going to get clean, damnit. 

When he was done in the shower he wrapped a towel around his waist, brought his filthy clothing into the bedroom and dropped it into the hamper. Once he turned his back to the mirror, he found it easy to ignore shock of the scrapes and bruises blossoming on his skin, the burgeoning black eye, the tender nose. He put on a Blues Brothers tee shirt and his softest pair of pyjama bottoms and returned to the lounge. 

Where he was pleasantly surprised to find Robbie in the kitchen, searching through the cabinet drawers.

"Can you eat anything? Soup? Toast?"

Hathaway prodded his sore jaw, nodded. 

"Go lie down on the couch."

He did as told, taken aback by the sight of two pillows against one of the armrests and his fluffy down and pristine white duvet spread on the couch, inviting him to sink into it and sleep. God, he hadn't even noticed them missing from his actual bed. "Sir?"

"In you go, lad."

And then Robbie was next to him, lifting the duvet, making sure he was comfortable, tucking him in again, handing him the tv remote. "Unless you'd rather have the stereo on?"

"'M good," Hathaway murmured, suddenly drowsy and basking in the comfort of someone taking care of him, of someone who loved him. Of someone he loved in turn. Because yes, while he mostly ignored how he felt about Robbie Lewis, there were times when it was all he could do not to throw himself upon Robbie's mercy and beg for relief from the tension. 

For Robbie flirted right back at him, in ways Hathaway would never have guessed from their first day together. And now here Robbie was, making him soup and toast and making sure he was alright. There were times when he thought he felt too much for the man, when he wondered if there was something wrong with him, when he wondered if Will hadn't been right after all.

"Try this," Robbie said, placing a small plate of cream crackers and a mug of Baxter's Ginger and Carrot on the coffee table.

When he wondered if Robbie had ever thought the same thing.


	7. THE HISTORY OF NOTHING

 

"You know something I don't?" repeated Lewis, bumping into Hathaway's shoulder all friendly-like as they walked down the stairs from Dean Wooten's office. 

And there it was. Hathaway didn't even know how to start.

"Come on," said Lewis, obviously taking pity on him. "You can tell me over a pint."

Unusually, there were few people in the Trout, which suited Hathaway fine. While Lewis went to spend a penny, Hathaway ordered two pints of bitter and then found a table in the corner next to the open hearth. A fire burning merrily chased away the chill he just could not seem to shake, even though it had been a few days since the incident with Carver. He hoped the feeling would fade with the bruises, just as it had when he was growing up.

By the time Lewis returned Hathaway had fortified himself with half of his pint. He tapped his glass a couple of times while he waited for Lewis to settle in his chair. Taking a deep breath, he said,"Sir," hesitated, then continued on. "Sir, I..."

He didn't want to see Lewis' sharp gaze, but he forced himself to look up anyway; a just penance for his actions (and with Lewis, it always felt like penance, didn't it? Lewis was not his father - thank God - and yet. He loved, and was loved in turn).

"Hathaway."

"I lied to you, sir," The expected tightening of lips didn't occur, by which Hathaway understood Lewis had already figured something out.

"Go on."

"I...suspected Carver's involvement from the start. Well, not Carver specifically, but someone who was familiar with the European cases."

And there was the spike of anger Hathaway had been waiting for. "No, it's not like that, sir," He closed his eyes and tried to make the chaotic jumble of his thoughts into something more coherent. "They began in the 17th Century. In Norway, and the Netherlands, in Prussia and Spain, then Bulgaria. Priests, and then members of the lay clergy, heretics, and those suspected of apostasy."

There was just the briefest hesitation as Lewis brought his pint glass to his lips, and Hathaway immediately knew what he was thinking. He shook his head immediately. "I'll be fine, sir. I'm careful. Besides, I'm no longer part of that life."

Lewis frowned at that, said, "No one suspected there was a serial killer in their midst?"

Hathaway shrugged and tried not to show his surprise. Once again he was impressed by Lewis' leap of understanding. He himself would have never made the connections as quickly. Hell, he hadn't made the connections at all beyond a vague 'what an interesting series of coincidences'. "These were times of war across the Continent. Unpleasant and gory death was expected. The Church was also not inclined to share knowledge of serial murder it didn't control, especially where it was clearly the target."

"So how do you explain what's happening now?"

"Theories abound, everything from evil spirits - I know, I know," at Lewis' incredulous huff of laughter. " - to a secret cabal dedicated to erasing the questioners from the believers. Manus Dei, of course. And if David was telling the truth, maybe there is a secret cabal invested in keeping the strongest in the Church."

"Hathaway..." Lewis frowned and paused. "James, how did you find out about this?"

Ah, yes, that. He would have to tread carefully. Not because he minded so much as it was personal. Deeply personal and mixed in with his spectacular fall from grace, his decision to join the Police force, and ultimately, this very moment with Lewis in the Trout.

Hathaway drank the rest of his beer, got up and ordered a glass of 15 year old Laphroaig and a bag of salted peanuts for Lewis. Sitting down again he ignored Lewis' pursed lips at the sight of his double. Didn't matter, he wasn't driving home tonight. If he was very lucky he wouldn't be going home at all. He said, "My Gran had Motor Neurone disease."

Lewis blinked at the segue, but continued on. "Like Stephen Hawking?"

"Mm. I didn't know what was wrong with her until after she died. Amazing the lies you can tell yourself."

Lewis looked at him open mouthed for a moment. "James, you were a child! How were you supposed to know any better?"

Hathaway twitched one shoulder. "She was the one who loved life, who loved God," and who in turn taught him to love God, too. And himself. "You might not believe this, sir, but for the most part I enjoyed being at Seminary."

"Oh no, I can definitely believe it. You with your thinky thoughts."

The words were snarky, but the plain affection with which they were said belied the tone in which they were spoken. Hathaway said, "H. L. Mencken once wrote 'I believe that it is better to tell the truth than a lie. I believe it is better to be free than to be a slave. And I believe it is better to know than to be ignorant.'"

"That doesn't really explain how you ended up at Thames Valley," Lewis said mildly.

"At Seminary there was an incident. Not with me," he hastened to add. "I saw something and I couldn't get it out of my head. When I brought my suspicions to my betters nothing was done. Nothing at all. I began spending more time on my studies, which is where I learned of the murders. Until Garvey I hadn't given them thought in years."

"How old were you when your Gran died?"

Not the question he had expected. "Twenty-four. It wasn't sudden, it never is with her type of Motor Neurone. My Grand-Aunt Phillipa had been taking care of her for some years when last I visited. You would have liked her."

_Hello, love._

She hadn't said a word, but her eyes had spoken volumes. James clasped her hand in both of his and knelt by the side of the sofa. Her stick-like fingers were moist and warm against his chilled palm, her cheek burning hot at the touch of his lips. 

"James, I've made tea."

He nodded, unable to tear himself away from Gran. Wrapped in cream colored sweaters and covered with two moth-eaten Army issue wool blankets, she was so tiny, so bird-like. 

So fragile.

There was the clinking of cup and spoon against saucer, the bright smell of fresh tea and lemon, the heavy footsteps of Grand-Aunt Phillipa as she bustled about behind him. 

"Come on, drink your tea while it's hot."

He didn't want any fucking tea, he wanted to be with his Gran in the woods, pelting her with dead leaves and acorn caps from behind the trees, shrieking with laughter while she cried for him to _Stop, James, you're messing my hair!_ even as she hurled them right back at him. "Can you bring it over here, please."

With a loud sigh Phillipa put the tea on the round side table. "I don't know why you bother, she can't say anything back to you."

James gritted his teeth and shifted to sit on the floor next to the sofa, still holding Gran's hand in one of his own. "And I'll thank you to be more polite."

Phillipa stared at him in disbelief, which was appropriate, he'd never said anything like that to her before. And since he didn't intend on returning to this house once Gran passed he didn't have to hold back any more. "How long until Father arrives?"

Phillipa twitched her pleated olive skirt to one side and dropped onto the hardback chair next to the side table. She stared at him, then abruptly said, "They've already been. Your mother says to say hello."

James looked back to Gran, who blinked, slowly. He gave her a reassuring smile. 

_They do, James,_ she had insisted. Looking away from him. They _do_ love you.

She was of course lying. But then, parents were always blind to the faults of their children.

_I love you, and God loves you, and we always will._

"So you were in Seminary then."

Hathaway came back to himself with a start. "Yes, yes I was."

Lewis idly toyed with the empty peanut packet. "And that was the year you left."

"Close enough. Why?"

Lewis shook his head. "No particular reason."

No particular reason. Right. Hathaway knew Robbie knew he wasn't stupid, that there was always point to his questions. "I didn't tell you any of this because I wasn't sure if I was on the right track. Manus Dei is...no one has ever proved it's real, and David Leominster is hardly the most trustworthy person on the planet."

Hathaway brought out his packet of ciggies, turned it over and over again, listened to the little clicking noises it made every time it hit the table. "I used to think Great-Aunt Phillipa had done something, given her too much medicine, or mixed medications from the back of the cabinet," he glanced at Robbie. "You know how old people are."

"Oh, aye," answered Robbie, one corner of his mouth curling up. After a moment he sobered. "James."

He couldn't stand the soft tone, the shocked sorrow for his younger self, the certain knowledge that Robbie could read his face like an open book. "We've discussed this before, you know how I feel."

Robbie leaned on the table, still playing with the empty peanut wrapper. "Even when it's your own relative?"

"Maybe especially when it's your own relative."

After a moment, Robbie stuck one hand in his jacket pocket, withdrew it, tossed a white envelope on the table. "Speaking of which."

Hathaway snagged it, looked it over. Sent from Thailand, it was addressed to **Mr. R. Lewis** in a messy chicken scrawl. Robbie nodded when Hathaway lifted an eyebrow. He pulled a folded card out of the envelope - the picture was the standard tropical beach and ocean scene typical of so many holiday cards - and opened it, was less than impressed with what was written within.

_Dad -_

_In Krabi. Julia having baby_  
dont know what is it yet.  
Robin, Tina, Kris and Justin  
getting married. Am on verge  
of contract with Planetary  
Entertainment. Doing show in a  
few weeks in Bucheon, might  
be on MBC or KBS Hows Lyn? 

_Mark_.

There was no return address. 

"Don't even know if that's me own grandchild or what," Robbie muttered. He took a deep draught of his pint.

Nothing Hathaway could think of sounded appropriate. He could only imagine that being the son of a man of Robbie's caliber would always be difficult.

"Ah well, what can you do?" asked Robbie, a sour little smile on his lips.

"Children will grow up," answered Hathaway, thinking back to his own youth and how he would have loved to have had a father like Lewis. But then he would have had a completely different life, wouldn't he? He and Robbie would have never met, and that could never be allowed.

"Aye, that they do."

Hathaway looked at Robbie, pondered. He shoved his cigarettes back in his pocket, stood up. "Come on, let's get a curry. We can go back to mine and watch Pointless."

Lewis grimaced and finished his point. "Feel like lording it over me, then."

"You should be used to by now, sir," said Hathaway, relieved that his confession was over, that Robbie's moment of unpleasantness was done as well. He felt a stab of guilt for the thought, because maybe he should be more concerned about why Robbie never spoke about Mark? Lyn was ever present, hell, Hathaway had talked to her on numerous occasions while answering Lewis' home and cell phones. Mark remained a mystery, though from Lyn he had gleaned the fact of a blowup between father and son, that Lewis was still bewildered, that Mark was an arsehole who was never going to amount to anything. Then again, it really was none of his concern. Even though he sometimes wanted it to be. "Another fine day with Detective Sergeant Hathaway of the Thames Valley Police."

"Cheeky sod," muttered Lewis.

Hathaway just grinned.

 

~*~ fin ~*~

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
** What a piece of work is man.  
~Hamlet, by William Shakespeare  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to thank everyone at the Lewis Comm on livejournal who sent me links and gave me advice on Catholicism. As it turned out, though it deepened my understanding of the faith, James told me it was less important to the story than I originally thought. I still think there are a few stories James hasn't mentioned, though...
> 
> I am not a Christian, and pretty much everything I know about Roman Catholicism and Anglicanism comes from the Internet. Any lapses in interpretation and knowledge are strictly mine.
> 
> Honestly, I thought there would be a bit of UST here, and it turned out to be pre-UST and a casefile. Well, sexy-times later in the year. I promise, some of it's already written, but I am a sloooooooooooow writer. Sorry.
> 
> 'Robbie' vs 'Lewis' - this is deliberate, not a mistake on my part. It's okay, I was a little confused at first, too. Hathaway was insistent that this was how it was going to be, and who am I to disagree?
> 
> Father Stone - from the wonderful comedy, Father Ted. (seriously, it's one of the best comedies ever made. EVER.)
> 
> Texstyle World Home - just a shout out to my peeps. And our pinneys were crayon purple. Horrible things.
> 
> Pointless - a British game show
> 
> Spending a penny - using the toilet. In Victorian times public toilets cost a penny to use, hence the saying.
> 
> The PLAYLIST - in order.
> 
>  
> 
> Chap 1 -VENI - 'Triple Concerto' - William Orbit., Pieces in a Modern Style. 2000 (England)  
> Chap 2 - VIDI - 'Blind Tiger' - Layo & Bushwacka, Night Works 2002 (Britain)  
> Chap 3 - VICI - 'Unsquare Dance' - Dave Brubeck, 1961 (USA)  
> Chap 4 - MACTAMUS TE - 'Murder of Soul' - DJ Krush, Krush. 1994 (Japan)  
> Chap 5 - LUNAR EDGE OF BLUE - 'Welcome to Lunar Industries' - Clint Mansell, MOON OST 2009 (Britain)  
> 'Edge of Blue' - DJ Krush, Krush 1994 (Japan)  
> Chap 6 - EXCUSE ME, SIR - 'Mystical Garden' - Omar Faruk Tekbilek, Longing. 2010 (Turkey)  
> Chap 7 - THE HISTORY OF NOTHING - 'Silver Morning' - Nujabes, Samurai Champloo OST. 2008 (Japan)
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> I see a man. Walking his path.  
> Walking, with the strength of a lion,  
> the might of a mammoth and the passion  
> of a dragon.
> 
> A man so strong he manages to see  
> himself in the mirror, and work his  
> way through his ordeal.
> 
> So the wounding can stop with him.  
> That, for me, is strength. That, for me,  
> is true masculinity.  
> I take off my hat, and bow in grace.  
> ~Aernout Zevenbergen  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
